pyrrhic victory

8/9/2019 Pyrrhic Victory

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Pyrrhic Victory

Donovan OCasey stepped off the plane onto the redcarpet and, for the first time in a decade and a half,felt the rock of beloved Erin beneath his feet. He wastempted to emulate the Pope, go down on both kneesand kiss the tarmac, but even though the crowdswhich had turned out to greet him were every bit as

impressive as those which had cheered the Pontiffthree years earlier, he felt it wouldnt be quite right,after all, the Pope was a man of God, and howevermuch he, Donovan OCasey might be revered andheld in esteem by his own people, there were thosewatching his triumphant homecoming to whom hewas no better than a mass murderer, including,

strangely, many of his own countrymen.But it soon transpired that if there were any suchmisguided souls in Dublin, there were certainly noneat the airport; his homecoming was cheeredunanimously; there were no dissenters, no peaceprotesters, there was not even a solitary member ofthe Anti-IRA Standing Committee waving a Tricoloras there had been at every demonstration, event and

shindig of the slightest political nature in Irelandthese past seven years. Not that he knew anythingabout that, save what hed heard second hand orread in the foreign press; he hadnt been home since1985, more than fifteen years. A lot had happenedsince then.Now, as he stepped off the plane and the first

cheers bombarded his ears, a strange feeling ofGaelic pride welled up inside him, a feeling he hadnt


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felt since that night in October 84 when hed gunned

down four British soldiers in cold blood. It hadntbeen quite like that of course, although that was theway the British always told it. True, they had beenjust as surprised as he was, but he had beenoutnumbered four to one by the elite of theoccupying forces, and had accounted for every oneof them. Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang! Five shotshad rung out, and in less than ten seconds, three of

them had been dead at his feet while the fourth hadtried desperately to crawl away, a bullet lodged in hisshattered spine. Then Donovan had calmly walkedacross to where his enemy lay, knelt over him and,taking the mans head in his hands, jerked it swiftlyto the right. The soldiers neck had been snappedinstantly, and he had walked off cool as a cucumberinto the Bogside night.This, more than anything else had secured him his

place in Republican folklore, indeed, he was verymuch a legend in his own lifetime: poems, songs andat least one novel had been written about him - andnow, Donovan OCasey, the greatest IRA hero ofthem all, was coming home.All these long years hed spent in exile, constantly

changing his appearance, growing a beard, amoustache, dyeing his hair, it had all beenworthwhile after all. He really had given up hope,almost. How many brave comrades had he lost? Howmany of the men hed gone to school with, grown upwith, had ended up in front of a British judge,sentenced to life imprisonment, or lying spread-eagled in a Belfast gutter with an SAS snipers bullet

through the back of the neck? Hed all but lost count,


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atrocity had strengthened the resolve of their foreign

supporters, particularly the Americans. The moreBrits they killed, the more money the Yanks pumpedinto Noraid.It had been the mass arrests after the Channel

Tunnel bombing that had led to the final phase; theBritish had made a crass mistake by reintroducinginternment, and by turning the SAS loose on thecivilian population. Had they conducted an ordinary

high profile police investigation the bombing couldwell have been a disaster for the IRA, but the randomshootings, the police brutality and the violations ofcivil liberties had all served in a short time togenerate more sympathy for the Provos.Three months after the Channel Tunnel bombing,

the assassination of the Queen followed immediatelyby the bombing of Oxford Circus undergroundstation had been the straw that broke the camelsback. The British public had long since lost thestomach for the fight, so had the Army, although thiscould never be openly admitted. For the past fewyears it had been the politicians and the unelectedgremlins of Whitehall, and only them, who haddesperately wanted to continue; it was probably the

fact that four MPs and a number of senior civilservants had been killed in the Oxford Circus blastthat had tipped the balance.Although it had still taken a year for them to come

to the negotiating table and a further two years forthe pact to be signed, the IRA godfathers had sensedvictory as soon as Britains Conservative PrimeMinister had mentioned the possibility of talks. This

had been unheard of; in the entire history of the


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troubles, no senior Conservative politician had even

suggested it; their line had always been: We dontnegotiate with murderers. Indeed, Cannon haduttered those very words himself less than a yearbefore, then here he was, the British Prime Minister,proposing a dialogue with the IRA.The motion hadnt been carried the first time, but it

had only taken a couple more bombs to persuadeany doubters to make up their minds, after that it had

been inevitable, but of course, the British alwaysliked both to drag things out with miles of red tape,and to try to salvage something. In this case therewas very little they could do except a complete aboutface and try to pretend that they had been looking fora negotiated settlement for the past ten years.Now it had finally happened, Ireland was both free

and united; of course, there would still be a fewproblems to iron out, like the Protestant majority inthe North, but theyd soon come round to acceptingthe new order, the common people always did,because basically they were like sheep, they neededleaders to follow, and now, after three thousanddeaths in the Province alone, they had them.Donovan OCasey had never been easily

overwhelmed with euphoria, hed experienced toomany disappointments, let downs and nearsuccesses for that ever to happen. All the same, hehad been caught up in all the hype ever since heboarded the plane in New York, and now that therecould be no turning back, now that Ireland wasactually united, and he was on his way home, it wasdifficult for him to be anything but euphoric. The first

indication that something might not be quite right


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had been the comment of one of the customs men at

the airport.Youre Donovan OCasey? the man had asked himas he checked his passport.Yes.TheDonovan OCasey?Well, yes.The IRA man?Yes.

At this point hed been feeling more than a littleuneasy; perhaps the customs officer had relatives inBritain or had lost a friend in one of the London hotelbombings; many Americans had been killed inLondon over the past few years, not because theyhad been targeted intentionally, but simply becausethere were so many of them living there and visitingthe capital. But any fears hed had on that score, thatperhaps hed be stopped, body searched and fittedup with drugs or something, swiftly evaporated asthe man seized his hand in a vice-like grip andpumped it with an enthusiasm and a warmth whichOCasey found overpowering. Jesus! Now I can tellmy children that Ive shaken the hand that killed theoppressors of my countrymen.

Youre Irish? he asked stupidly.Fifth generation, my family have been in thiscountry since eighteen-eighty something, but anIrishman is an Irishman wherever he was born,wherever he lives.Ill second that, he said warmly, whats yourname?Conlon, Michael Conlon.

Good to meet you, Michael Conlon.


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Youre going back there now? he said, to

Belfast?Yes, as soon as Ive met the Prime Minister inDublin.I was there last year; youd not recognise it now.Its still Ireland.Ireland? Oh no, Belfast is not Ireland.What is it then? he replied a little tartly, Britain?What! No, not that, its much worse than that.

OCasey was puzzled, What could be worse thanthat? he asked.You dont know, do you?No.Youll see when you get there.At this point the man behind him in the queue

coughed loudly and interrupted rudely, If you dontmind, Ive got a plane to catch.That had been the end of their conversation; hedwondered what the customs man had meant, for atime it had worried him, but once aboard the plane hehad struck up a conversation with an elderly woman.She was returning home for the first time in overthirty years and he had quickly been immersed in hereuphoria as she prattled on and on about the

grandchild she had never seen, but she was such alovely girl, a regular colleen. He hadnt heard thatword for a long time. In fact at one point he hadntheard English for a long time, because although hewas flying in from New York, he had spent much ofthe time he was on the run from the British, fightingas a mercenary in Africa. He hadnt particularly likedthe job, but it had paid well, and there werent many


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things he could do except kill people, but what he

did, he was good at.After hed met the Prime Minister of All-Ireland inthe VIP lounge, he was quickly spirited off to achurch hall about a mile and a half from the airportwhere a press conference had been convened.Donovan OCasey had never liked the press,primarily because they had labelled him and hisorganisation murderers and used similar distasteful

epithets. It had been the press more than any otherinstitution which had persecuted the IRA for the pastfifteen years, for as long as he had been a member,indeed for as long as he could remember, but therehad been no idealistic or altruistic motive for theconstant stream of invective and hatred which hadbeen directed against them. Donovan realised thatbecause these same journalists were always swift toheap praise on the ANC, and what scum they were.In his early days with the Republican movement he

had empathised with the so-called armed struggle inSouthern Africa, indeed, the IRA had even workedwith the ANC on occasion, but that was before theydrealised what these murdering scum were really into.They had no idealism, they werent fighting to

liberate their country. When Donovan had read up onthe history of South Africa, when hed spoken to ex-patriat South Africans, hed soon been put straighton that score. The entire black liberationmovementwas a joke, from top to bottom it was run bybourgeois liberals, black pseudo-intellectuals and,worst of all, by communist Jews.Donovan had read quite a lot of conspiracy theory,

from the Protocols of Zion to the sophisticated anti-


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UN propaganda which was churned out by certain

American anti-communist publishing houses, andhad never found any of it convincing, but there wasno denying the fact that a certain type of Jew gaineda great deal of satisfaction from promotingmiscegenation and openly advocating the overthrowof any government which took the slightest standagainst forced race-mixing. In this respect the presswere inseparable from the Jews; many journalists

were also Jewish, that fact had not escaped hisnotice either. Yet here they were: the enemies of bothIrish Republicanism and white civilisation, queuingup to shake his hand, pumping him for informationabout his life on the run, and even offering himenormous sums of money for one exclusive afteranother.Was it true that he had been the fifth man in the

assassination of the Queen of England? Had it beenhe who had shipped in the Semtex for the TelecomTower job? How well had he known Declan Brady,the IRA godfather whod been assassinated by theSAS in Crete? It had been one of the most distastefulexperiences of his life, but hed have to get used tothis sort of thing from now on; that was the price of

fame.Donovan checked out of his hotel at five pm the

next evening and caught the six thirty flight toBelfast. There would be no heros welcome for himhere because he was travelling incognito. Hedspoken to Sandra on the phone last night; God, itmust have been nearly seven years since hed evenheard her voice. What would she look like now, his

kid sister? He couldnt wait to see her, to hold her in


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his arms, to kiss her precious head; theyd never

been close when they were kids, but for them ithadnt been a case of out of sight out of mind, ratherone of absence making the heart grow fonder. Butfirst he had to go through customs again.Although the flight was counted as a domestic one,

now that Dublin and Belfast were part of the samecountry, it had been standard practice throughout theEEC for the past three years for all internal air

travellers to go through a customs check. It soundedsilly really: even if you were flying from say Londonto Manchester in England, a mean distance of sometwo hundred miles, and a journey that could madejust as quickly by rail, it was still obligatory. In fact,travelling any great distance by rail or using theBritish motorways or the German Autobahnen forexample, all necessitated regular checks by policeand internal customs. Random stops and even stripsearches were common, routine in some areas:London and the Basque area of Spain to name buttwo.This was the so-called Luxembourg Protocol which

had been agreed in principle at a full meeting of theEuropean Parliament in March 1996; it had been

aimed specifically at the IRA, but with the triumph ofthe Provos there had been no suggestion that it bescrapped. Indeed, the first IRA member of Parliamenthad vigorously supported it as a necessary measureagainst the spread of international terrorism!Donovan didnt have long to wait at internal

customs; there had only been a handful of people onthe flight. He was greeted by a Pakistani customs


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officer, at least, the man looked like a Pakistani, but

he spoke with a heavy Belfast accent.Mr OCasey?Yes, said Donovan.Would you like to step this way please?Is anything wrong? he asked.Oh, no sir, but we were told by Special Branch thatyou didnt want any publicity. Family visit, I believe?The man smiled disarmingly, and Donovan followed

him like an unsuspecting sheep. He led him down adimly lit corridor while Donovan, suitcase in hand,wondered innocently if there was to be a surprisereception. His sister had said something aboutmeeting him at the airport with her husband and twochildren: Duane and Donovan; shed named the firstchild after their father, whod been a famousRepublican, and the second after him.I gather you havent been here for a while sir, saidthe customs officer.No, not since I was your age, replied Donovan.Oh, Im older than I look, he replied, in any case,Im a native, born and bred and its changed a lotsince I was a kid.Really? said Donovan, you surprise me.

Yes sir, he said, innocently, Im thirty-oneactually.That hadnt been what Donovan had meant; what hehad meant was that he wondered how this immigranthad the nerve to call himself a native.Where are you from? he asked.Derry, he replied, thats where my family are from,but Im a Belfast man myself.


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Donovan shook his head in disbelief, but before he

could think of a suitable reply, the customs officeropened a side door and led him out into a small carpark.Here we are, sir.Donovan opened his mouth to speak, but caught hisbreath as a squeaky female voice called out hisname.Donny! Donny!

He looked across the car park and there she was,his kid sister, and she looked hardly a day older thanshe had on the eve of her nineteenth birthday, thelast time hed set eyes on her all those years ago.Ill leave you to be re-united then, the customs mansaid, hope to see you again, Mr OCasey; have apleasant trip.Smiling thoughtfully, the man closed the door onthem and they were alone together. Donovandropped his suitcase as Sandra rushed into his arms.Oh Donovan, Donovan darling, I thought Id neversee you again, never thought I would.They hugged each other more like long lost loversthan brother and sister; he kissed her face and shewept tears of joy.

Bejesus, he said, youre still the same, still thesame.I never thought Id see you, never thought I would.she repeated. Mick would have loved to come andmeet you but hes working late; hes a doctor. Youknow.Donovan OCasey did indeed know; hed heard all

about his sisters family. Over the years hed only

had a handful of letters from her forwarded through


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several dead letter boxes, but they had been long

ones and shed kept him up to date with all the familydevelopments including, sadly, the death of theirfather in 92 and of their mother two years later. Shewas the only family he had in the world now, her andher two boys, the nephews he had never seen.Where are they then?Wheres who?Your sons, woman, my nephews!

Oh, Duane and Donny, I couldnt bring them withme, not through Cranston, besides, theyre justgetting over the flu.Cranston was one of the new redevelopment zones,the last lingering legacy of British influence. In 1995they had tried to bring new work to the Province, andseveral areas had been ear-marked for grandioseroad building and property developing schemes, theso-called RDZs.Nothing much had come of them, but in less than twoyears, the housing estates which had been built inassociation with them had quickly become notoriousslums and hotbeds of social unrest. At least, that waswhat he had read in the British and Irish press,though he had never actually seen a photograph of

them, not even one. Thinking of that momentarilymade him realise hed never seen a photograph ofhis nephews either.Hey, I cant wait to see them, he said, what arethey like, these boys of yours?Oh youll love them,she said, Duane is just likeyou.You should have called him Donovan then, he

laughed.


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Oh Donny, I had to name the first one after Daddy,

didnt I?Yes, he said, suddenly a little sad, Ill have to goup and see Dad. And Mum.Theyre together, she said, and at peace.They both smiled, grimly, as if in assonance.Hey, come on, he said, therell be plenty of timefor nostalgia later; lets talk of the living now.She nodded, Yes, its been so long though Donny,

and I wish you could have seen Daddy before hedied. And Mummy.Her car was parked up against the far side wall; shetook him by the hand and led him to it. There were somany things he wanted to ask her, both about Belfastand about her family, but he still felt drained after hislong journey and the ordeal of the press conference.Hed been on the go for the best part of a week. As heclimbed into the car he yawned; she turned to himand said, mockingly: I hope youre not tired of mealready?Tired of running and hiding, he said.She opened her car door, pausing to reply,You donthave to run now, Donny, nor hide. Youre home now.That was true, he was home at last, after all these

years. And he would stay here until the day he died,that was a promise. They drove off out of thecustoms officers car park towards her home.When they reached the perimeter they were flaggeddown by a pair of heavily armed Guarda. The olderman held a submachine gun across hischest; the younger man, who Donovan thought was acurious looking fellow, drew his pistol and advanced


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towards the car, poking his head in the drivers

window suspiciously.May I see you papers please, miss? he asked, andyours, sir?As he came up close, Donovan realised why the

man looked so strange: he was Chinese. Well, maybehe wasnt Chinese exactly, but he was certainly anOriental of some kind. He gave Donovan a typical,inscrutable Oriental look and said: Welcome home,

Mr OCasey.Donovan forced a smile; he was reaching for his

wallet and passport when the man waved at Sandraand said: Its all right Mrs Connor, we were told toexpect you.She smiled at him, Thank you, she said.The customs man nodded at Donovan, still givinghim what Donovan took for a dirty look, butshrugging his shoulders he thought to himself: Itsjust their way.As they drove on, Sandra turned to him and said,Im glad I got special clearance, it can take ages forthem to search your car.I wouldnt have thought there was any need for itnow, or are the Protestants still restless?

Oh no, she said, Ireland is one big happy familynow, but you can never be too careful, can you?That was true enough, he thought, but said instead,I never thought Id ever see a Chinaman guarding anIrish airport; I thought they all worked in restaurantsand takeaways.He started to laugh, but she cut him up short,

Donny, thats not a nice thing to say, you being Irish


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and all. You know how the British have always

portrayed us as thick micks.Yeah, he laughed again, except we werent sothick when we were givin them hell, blowin up theirwonderful Queen and all.Donovan OCasey! she exclaimed with mockindignation, youre quite incorrigible! But shelaughed with him.She drove him through a maze of squalid back

streets, because she didnt like driving on the mainroads, she said; they were less likely to be stoppedby a B-Squad if they stuck to side streets and minorroads. The B-Squads had been introduced last year;they were an idea the new nationalist governmenthad borrowed from the British. They were highlytrained teams of special traffic police who werearmed and could stop any vehicle anywhere at anytime. They could also detain suspects withoutwarrant for a reasonable time, which meant inpractice until the detainee was able to satisfy themthat he was neither a terrorist nor engaged in anycriminal activity. Their introduction had been highlycontroversial and had provoked a storm of protest inthe Dail, but eventually the security services had had

their way.Hasnt changed much, Belfast, said Donovan, heresisted the temptation to say: It still looks like ashithole. because he knew it would take time, lots ofmoney and even more effort to restore it to the way itshould be.Theres a lot of work to be done, Donny, she said,reading his thoughts, give it time.


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He stared out of the window as they drove along at

thirty miles an hour, and thought it so different fromthe way he remembered it. He began to think thatperhaps his first impression had been wrong. It tooka while for him to realise why, but slowly it dawnedon him. He had of course never been to or throughCranston before; last time hed been here this areahad been totally undeveloped. Now it was built up,there were tower blocks, shops and factories, but

though they were only a few years old, they lookedfor all the world as though they had been built in the1930s. It was as if they had been transported back intime. This wasnt an area that had been run down; ithad been destroyed, literally. And there wassomething else, something even more disturbing,sinister even.As they passed the shops, he studied the names

above them: the ones that were legible had nameslike Khan, Dar, Patel and Kumar. These were not Irishnames. Many of the shops had signs above themwhich were written in a foreign language, not just aforeign language but hieroglyphics. He recognised itfor what it was: Punjabi, Urdu or something similarfrom the Indian sub-continent. Why werent there any

Irish names? As Donovan OCasey looked closer henoticed something else, something even morealarming. There were kids playing in the street, butthey werent Irish kids, they werent even white.Some were Asian, some were Chinese, but most ofthem were black, but not just black, worse than that,half black.Do you come through here often, Sis? he asked

her.


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Not if I can help it; Michael doesnt like me going out

at all, not on my own.I dont like this place, he said, it doesnt feel right.Thats because youve been away so long, sheanswered philosophically, youve become astranger in your own house.I hope not, he said.Of course not, Donny, she reached over andpressed his arm, keeping her other hand firmly on

the wheel.I dont know anyone, he said, only you; all thepeople I knew are dead.Youll soon make new friends, youre a celebrity, ahero. She paused then continued, Is that why youdidnt want anyone to know you were coming hometoday?I need time, he answered.Youll have plenty of that, take it one day at a time.He smiled weakly.Micks dying to meet you, she said, he would havecome too but hes working late.I know, he said, you told me. Hes a doctor.And a mighty fine one too, she answered, hisMum and Dad are ever so proud of him.

Are they a local family? he asked, you never toldme.No. Well, they are now. Youll like them; I thought Idinvite them round for the weekend.That sounds nice, he said.They passed out of Cranston onto the main road

and a few minutes later, entered the tree lined suburbwhere Sandra Connor had lived for the past four

years. Donovan felt the sense of unease that had


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come over him in Cranston pass; this was a really

nice area, his sister had done well for herself to livein such a place. She and her husband owned theirown home outright too, no mortgage. He was lookingforward to meeting Michael Connor; he wasntlooking forward to meeting other people though: hedhad enough of being a celebrity. Now that thestruggle was finally over, he wanted only to becomeplain Donovan OCasey, find himself a nice colleen

and settle down, for in truth he didnt carry theburden of fame well, and neither was he getting anyyounger. As they drove up to the house, he noddedapprovingly, Thats it?Thats it, Donny, Fairlawns.Fairlawns. he repeated.Michaels very proud of it.He must be very proud of you too, he said, Ill betMamma was too; she always said youd either marrya doctor or a lawyer.Did she? asked Sandra.You know damn well she did! he chided, she

used to tell you often enough.Its been such a long time, I forgot.Yes, he said, nostalgia aint what it used to be.

They both laughed.Will you open the gate for me? she asked.Smiling at his sister, he got out of the car and

walked up to the gate. The house was a good thirtyyards from the road, and as he looked up at it, he sawa figure in the window. Pausing, he stared at itcuriously; it was a woman, he couldnt tell how oldshe was, except that she looked to be on the wrong

side of fifty.


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She was dressed in a strange outfit. He strained his

eyes and realised the woman was wearing traditionalIndian garb. What was she doing in his sistershouse? As he walked back to the car, he askedSandra. Oh, thats Mrs Sharma, she replied.Mrs Sharma?The babysitter! Cant leave the boys on their own,can I?No, I suppose not, he answered.

He almost asked her about Mrs Sharma, was she anIndian? But he figured that would be something of anacademic question; hed meet her in a couple ofminutes anyway. Funny, he thought to himself, therehadnt been that many Indians here when hed lastbeen home. Unlike the Mainland, that had beeninfested with them even then; now, hed heard, theywere buying up all the businesses, not just thecorner shops as they had in the seventies andeighties, but all the wholesalers, manufacturers,banks...you name it, the Asians were buying it.Hed heard that from an Englishman, a tourist hed

met in Florida. Well, hed gone there as a tourist, buthed decided not to return home because he couldntstand the thought of what was happening to his

country. It was being turned into a multi-racialMarxist slum, hed said. And that was under a Torygovernment.Donovan remembered that at one time the Tories

had been very anti-immigration, but over the past fewyears even they had become terrified of beingbranded racists, and as a result, more and moreimmigrants had come flooding into the country. Race

was a taboo subject on the Mainland. Mainland, he


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thought, almost out loud. Why was he thinking of

Britain as the Mainland? It was a foreign country;Ireland was united now, one nation and one raceunder God. Except for the middle aged Indian womanin his sisters living room, and the Paki kids and half-chits hed seen playing on the streets of Cranston, hethought dolefully.He thought again of that English tourist in Florida

and wondered if the man would be any happier living

there. It was certainly much warmer than England,but neither Florida nor the rest of the United Stateswas any better than Britain in racial terms. In Britainthere were more Indians than any other minorities; inthe States it was the blacks who were breeding likerabbits, except on the West Coast where theChicanos had long been the dominant minority, andFlorida where the Cubans and Haitians were takingover. While in New York even the Jews were beingdriven out, principally by the Puerto Ricans, so therewerent that many places left for white Americans.Still, at least Ireland hadnt succumbed to the risingtide of colour. Except for the middle aged Indianwoman in his sisters sitting room he thoughtdolefully.

Sandra drove up to the house and parked the car inthe drive while Donovan closed the gate behind herand walked up. He shook his head in disbelief; hiskid sister had changed so much over the years; whenthey were kids shed hated blacks, and detestedAsians. He on the other hand had been ultra-liberalas long as he wasnt discussing Sectarian politics,and had rebuked Sandra no end of times for making

racially derisive remarks.


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And in some respects he hadnt changed; hed

spent a long time in Africa, and although hed neverswallowed any of that racial equality bullshit, he hadcome to like and admire Africans. They were anunsophisticated people but, when met on their ownground, in the bush or the villages away from theconcrete jungle, the white mans domain, they hadmany admirable qualities. The big mistake was takingthe African out of the bush and expecting him to live

and behave like a European. Donovan hadnt met thatmany Asians; they were nowhere near as primitive asAfricans, and boasted a culture of sorts going backthousands of years to the ancient Aryans, but theydidnt belong in Europe, much less in Ireland. And hecertainly didnt want them in his sisters housebabysitting his nephews. Mrs Sharma came out tomeet them and smiled warmly at Donovan.Hello Mrs Connor, she said, the boys are anxiousto meet their uncle. She smiled again at Donovan,flashing an inviting but stained set of teeth at thereturning hero. Donovan smiled weakly, I cant waitto meet them either.You are very big hero in our country, she said.India? he asked stupidly.

She laughed, Mrs Connor said you did not wantanyone to know you are here for a few days, so Ihave told no one, not even my husband that you arecoming. But we hope that when you have settled inwe will be pleased to throw a party in yourhonour.Again she smiled; in spite of her curioussyntax she spoke English very well; she hadprobably been here since the sixties, Donovan

thought.


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Do you want me anymore tonight, Mrs Connor?

she asked.Oh no, youd better let me ring for a taxi; its gettingdark.Thank you.They went into the house and Donovan, feeling very

much the odd-man-out, admired the china ducks onhis sisters wall. The phone was on a low table justinside the hall; Sandra picked up the receiver and

dialled for a taxi.Looking up at her brother, she smiled and said to

the Indian woman, Mrs Sharma, take Donny into thekitchen and make him a cup of coffee or something.Then to Donovan, Be with you in a minute, dear.Donovan followed her into the kitchen, It is so

good to have you with us, she said pleasantly, allthe suffering and hardship have been worthwhilenow that the infernal British have gone.Donovan was surprised to hear her talk like this,

then a thought occurred to him, Are you aCatholic? he asked.She laughed, No, I am Hindu, but we Irish muststick together.Donovan couldnt believe what he had heard, We

Irish? what was she talking about, We Irish?In the kitchen she asked him if he would prefer tea

or coffee and he said coffee would be fine. Then shecontinued, You know, there is so much trouble inthe world, Mr OCasey, and in Ireland; only lastThursday there was a riot in Derry and twelve peoplewere killed.Protestants or Catholics? he asked.


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Oh no, not Sectarian; there was a group of black

boys arrested by the police and it started a riot.Blacks? Donovan asked.Oh yes, but it was not racism; Ireland you know is avery tolerant country.Which was probably the reason the Irish had been

bombing the hell out of each other for the past thirtyand more years, he thought. He said nothing.No, it was not racism, but sometimes the police can

be very insensitive.Race riots in Derry, Donovan thought, whatever

next? Mrs Sharma made him a cup of coffee andthen, excusing herself, went upstairs to check on theboys. Donovan walked out into the hall and thenfollowed his sister into the living room.I wanted to let them stay up and meet you tonight,she said, but theyre just getting over the flu andMick said its best if they take it easy for a few days.Yes, you said. Doctors orders, he laughed. Shelaughed too, I suppose so; youll like Mick, hesbeen wanting to meet you since our first date.Where did you meet him? Donovan asked, younever did tell me. In the supermarket of all places,she said, I suppose it would have been more

romantic if Id met him in hospital, but thats life.When Mrs Sharma returned they talked about

trivialities until a car horn sounded in the roadoutside.Thatll be your cab, said Sandra.The Indian woman bade them both good night thenwalked out to the waiting car. Donovan OCaseysprawled out over his sisters settee and threw his

head back closing his eyes tightly. Its going to take


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a lot of getting used to, he said, especially after the

jungle.Tell me about Africa, Donny, she said.Sandra Connor had heard all about her brothers

adventures in the Dark Continent, how he had foughtfor the Free Uganda Movement against that countryslatest despot, Big Brother Tgula who had thereputation in the West of being the second coming ofIdi Amin. But Donovan didnt want to talk about

Tgula, nor Tshombe, nor Africa itself. Although hedspent most of his exile there, it hadnt been fromchoice, he had been a mercenary pure and simple.True, there had been idealism at first, but when hesaw what the African rulers were like, how theytreated their own people, he had quickly gone off thewhole distasteful business. Donovan looked at hissister and said, Hey, I dont want to talk aboutfighting and killing anymore. Do you?She smiled and nodded her head then threw her

arms around him. Youre right, she said, look atthat sky. She was looking out of the window as thesun went down; bright red streaks cut across thehorizon just like hed seen once in the Arizona Desertwhen hed been travelling in the States disguised as

a tourist on his way to meet up with some WestCoast Noraid supporters.Doesnt that make you feel good to be aliveDonovan?It does at that, he said, sometimes I used towonder if it was all worthwhile, but to see the sun godown on Erin like that, well, I dont have any doubtsanymore.


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He sat with her, looking through the family album,

all the old photos of their father, mother and theestate where they had lived. He didnt remember thestart of the Troubles that well because he had veryyoung at the time; Sandra was younger than him ofcourse, so her recollections of such things were evenmore vague, where she remembered them at all.After they had put the photographs away they

talked, talked of trivialities which had once seemed

so important, and of things which had seemed liketrivialities at the time but which they now both helddear. Donovan was on his third cup of coffee whenSandra said, Id better go and look in on the boys.Hey, I havent seen them yet, he said, let mecome.No, she said, just in case theyre awake; I wantthem to get a good nights sleep and then theyshould be over this bug in the morning.He shrugged his shoulders, then she added,

Bejesus! I havent shown you our family album. Howthoughtless of me. She walked over to thesideboard and took out a big leatherbound volume,Here Donny, have a look through this then well gothrough it together. Mickll be home soon anyway.

She left the room, and Donovan opened his sistersfamily album. With the thoroughness which hevaguely remembered was typical of her, he noticedthat the album was indexed. Page 14: weddingphotos. Page 26: Donovans first birthday party. Ah,here it was, Page 37: All four of us. He smiled tohimself then turned to page 37 and the smile wasinstantly wiped off his face. He sat up with a start:

this wasnt Sandras husband, surely? He opened his


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mouth to say something under his breath, then the

door bell rang. Jumping up, he threw the album downonto the settee and rushed out into the hall.At the same time, Sandra came running down the

stairs and they almost collided.Ill get it! theyexclaimed in unison; she laughed, but Donovanpushed her roughly aside and rushed to the door.Sandra was taken aback, but he had already thrownthe door open and stood eye to eye with Michael

Connor.What a day Ive... he began, then broke off. The

two men studied each others features, Donovan withdisbelief, Sandras husband with curiosity. It was hewho spoke first, Well, you must be Donovan.Must be? he laughed,I recognise you from your photograph. Sandraskept it on her bedside table since the day we gotmarried. Welcome home Donny.He threw his armsaround Donovan and hugged him like a bear.Donovan stood like a man in a trance; how he got

through the next half hour without collapsing ordoing something foolish he wasnt able to fathom. DrMichael Connor had had a rough day, but not asrough as he, Donovan OCasey. The reason hed rung

the door bell was because hed left his keys at thehospital; earlier that day his car had broken down, sohed have to borrow Sandras tomorrow, that was ifhe went in. Hed be on stand-by; the way things wereat the moment he could be called in at any time, buthe wanted to meet his famous brother-in-law andspend some time with him and his own wife andchildren.


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He also wanted Donovan to meet his own father,

My Dads been a lifelong admirer of yours, he said,hes told all our family about you; all my cousinsknow about Donovan OCasey, and theyre reallyproud that their cousin is married to his sister.Donovan grinned sheepishly; he looked at Sandra

and she smiled back at him. He searched her face forsome trace of recognition, but all he could see was afar away, vacant look. She really didnt know what

she had done, she had not the faintest idea. Howcould he tell her? Michael was sitting on the setteeholding a large glass of whiskey in his right hand;Ill have to take you to India some day, he said.Sandra laughed, Dont you listen to him, Donny,hes been promising to take me there ever since wegot married.No, seriously, he said, we can go after Christmas.You dont want to spend another winter here like thelast one, do ya? Sandra tugged at her husbandsthick, black beard until he yelped,Ow!I told you before not to embarrass me in front offolk, she said with mock spitefulness. They wereobviously playing some sort of game, one theyd

played many times before.Michael Connor pulled himself up, which was no

mean feat as his wife was doing her best to pin himdown, Hey, Donovans not folk, hes family. Hemanaged to stand up, despite her, drained the last ofhis whiskey in a single gulp, and walked across tothe drinks cabinet,Are you sure you wont have one, Donny? Donny

he thought, this alien was not only married to his


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sister but was calling him Donny! No, he said, I

told you, I never touch the stuff.Of course, said Michael Connor, straightening histurban with one hand and trying to refill his glasswith the other, theyve always frowned on that in theMovement, havent they? I suppose I should knowbetter seeing what it does to people, and me being adoctor and all, but just because its a fearful masterdoesnt mean it cant be a useful slave now and

then.Now he was misquoting George Washington; please

God, dont let him start on Gerry Adams too!Donovan looked at his watch, it was turned midnightyet when he walked over to the curtains and drewback the thick velvet it still looked light outside; itwas the moon. He looked up at it and shook his headin disbelief. What was he going to do? He couldntstay here, not in this house, not with his sistersleeping in the same bed with this Paddy-by-proxyknocking back Irish whiskey, singing the praise ofthe IRA and telling what a splendid fellow he,Donovan OCasey was. He hadnt met his sistersoffspring yet either; how could he? He wouldnt beable to hide his revulsion. Hed have to leave soon,

now, hed have to make some excuse, leave thehouse tonight and find a hotel where he could holeup for a few days while he thought things out. Thatwas what he needed, time to think. Hed have to takeSandra aside now and tell her he couldnt stay heretonight. Shed want to know why of course, she hadbeen so brainwashed that she would never be able towork out the reason for herself, but he would have to


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leave and leave now. Or at least before she

introduced him to her picaninnies as Uncle Donny.He was just about to take Sandra aside when therewas a thumping sound from the hallway just outsidethe living room door. Michael turned towards thedoor, Sandra sat up on the settee and Donovaninstinctively reached for the gun he no longer carriedin the shoulder holster he no longer wore. The dooropened and in walked Duane and Donovan Connor in

their dressing gowns and slippers.Sandra stood up at once and scowled at them,

You! I told you... she began, but Michael cut in andboth boys started talking at once. They were bleary-eyed and looked like theyd just woken up.It was him... they said in unison.Hey kids, come and meet your Uncle Donovan!

said Michael, walking over to the youngest one andsweeping him off his feet. Sandra was trying to tickthem off, but Michael carried his youngest son overto his long lost Uncle and dumped him triumphantlyon his lap, Here he is, Donny, your namesake. Look,hes even got your eyes.Sandra walked over to Duane and began scolding

him, saying something about their having just got

over the flu and how he had deliberately disobeyedher, but Michael cut in harshly, Hush woman! Theywant to meet their Uncle Donny.Hello Uncle Donny, said the brown eyed, brownskinned creature on Donovans lap, then threw hisarms around Donovans neck and kissed him.Welcome to Erin.

**********


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He sat in the departure lounge, his case on the seat

beside him, his head in his hands. Hed spent the lasttwo days and nights walking the streets of Belfast, orof what had once been Belfast but was now more likeCalcutta. Surely it hadnt been like this before? Hewracked his brains trying to remember what it hadbeen like, he wasnt sure, but one thing he was sureof was that it hadnt been like this.He thought of his sister, his lovely kid sister; she

had been lovely once, but she wasnt anymore. NowDonovan didnt know what to make of her; she didntrealise the enormity of what she had done; none ofthem did. For the past 48 hours he had been scouringall the old IRA haunts, the drinking dens and bars,and everywhere was the same. He saw white girls,lovely Irish colleens staring dreamy-eyed into Dark,alien faces. Where before they would have beentaking up with Erins finest stock: the McGuigans, theMcShanes and the OReillys, now they had becomethe whores of Dar, Khan, Patel and any of a dozenother weird and not-so-wonderful surnames from thesub-continent and from darkest Africa. And, whatwas even worse, Irish men didnt seem to realise thatsomething terrible was happening to their

womenfolk; it was as though they had all beenbrainwashed, like his kid sister.Donovan cast his mind back to the argument.

Somehow hed managed to hold his tongue in thepresence of Sandras husband; the following day theinappropriately named Dr Michael Connor had goneoff to work at the hospital and he had been left alonewith Sandra and the boys. She had realised that

something was wrong, but she had simply dismissed


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it. When shed told Michael hed laughed and put it

down to culture shock. Sandra, the guys been onthe run for fifteen years; you cant expect him to justwalk in through the front door and take up where heleft off. He doesnt know anyone, not even you. Givehim time.I suppose so, she said.Christ, if Id been on the run all that time Id havehad a nervous breakdown, wouldnt you?

Youre right again, as usual, Doctor.Donovan remembered sitting across the breakfast

table, staring into space like a zombie while they firedinnumerable questions at him, all four of them, hissister, her husband and their mongrel offspring. Andhe had replied to each and every one of them with ashake of the head or a grunt. Then when Michael hadleft the house, she had really let herself go. OhDonny, its so good to have you home; after all theseyears. You know I cried myself to sleep last night Iwas so happy. Mick says Im a big softie. Oh Donny,Im so happy, and so proud. We never gave up hope,after all those years we none of us ever gave uphope.Hope, he grunted.

It was bad for us as well you know, terrible. You cantimagine what it was like, what with internment andthe neighbours being arrested and the policesearching the house.They searched this house? he grunted again.Oh no, when we were living in the other place; itwasnt Mick they were after, although they weresuspicious of him because hes very patriotic...


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Shed just gone on and on like that: her husband

was very patriotic; Donovan OCasey tried tovisualise his brother-in-law waving a Tricolor, butsomehow he couldnt reconcile it with his turban.Then she had thrown her arms around his shouldersand hugged him like the long-lost brother he was.Oh Donny, I know I keep repeating myself, butyoure home. I still cant believe it.He tensed involuntarily; the thought of her sleeping

with this alien and then touching him made his fleshcreep. She was still babbling like a macaw; he feltlike putting his hands round her throat and slowlysqueezing the breath out of her body. Donny, yourealise what this means, darling? Weve won! Wevefinally won.Won? he asked, what have we won?She had worked herself up into such a state that shedidnt detect the warning tone of his voice.The war thats what weve won, the war.Won? We havent won anything.She eyed him curiously,Of course we have, Donnydarling. What do you mean?He shook his head in disbelief and nearly shouted,God woman, look at your children!

Duane and Donovan, she said, totally missing thepoint, but theyre free now Donny, theyll grow up asfree Irishmen.Irishmen? he couldnt believe this; How can theybe Irishmen?She stared at him blankly then a thought entered herhead, Theyll never come back, Donny, the Britishhave gone for good.


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Hed tried to explain but she just didnt seem to be

capable of taking it in. Dont you understandwoman, we havent won anything.Donny, thats silly talk; they wont come back, theBritish.Its not the British; what do you think will happennow; what would Papa say?Hed be over the moon, Donny, you know he

would.

Not about the withdrawal; you, and...and Mick? hehad to force himself to say the word, Mick, the guywas a darker shade of brown, sported a thick, blackbeard and wore a turban. What was his name: GurjitSingh? Prakash? Kumar? No, it was Mick! The wholesituation was so totally unreal that he wanted topinch himself because he was obviously dreaming,except that this was a nightmare from which hewould never wake up.Hed been thrilled; it wasnt only Mummy whowanted me to marry a doctor.But hes not just a doctor: hes... he tailed off.Hes what? she said, still wide-eyed and innocent.Hes not Irish.She laughed, But of course hes Irish, hes as Irish

as me. And you! she added, not the least bitoffended, and still not even aware of what he wastrying to say.But Sandra, hes not even white.Not what, Donny?White, hes not white, and neither are your sons.She stared at him, So. It was a matter-of-fact so.Dont you understand, woman?

Is that what we fought the British for?


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I dont understand, Donny, what has fighting the

British got to do with Mick?Good God, woman, I didnt fight the British for him; Ifought them for you, at least I thought I did. You andall the colleens like you. But not for you to marry a... he groped around desperately to find the mosteuphemistic word he could think of, ...an alien.Alien? she asked, obviously believing that alienscame from outer space.

A Paki!She bit her lip and the blood drained from her face;

her voice was shocked and low as she replied,Donovan, thats racism.He stared at his sister for a full half minute; she

returned his stare, neither of them knowing what tosay. Suddenly he realised there was nothing he couldsay; his sweet little kid sister had become abrainwashed moron, the whore of a refugee from thesub-continent. He left soon after that, packing hissuitcase and letting himself out of the back doorwhile Sandra sat in the living room as if in a state ofshock.Hed thought nothing worse could happen, but hed

been wrong on that score. After leaving his sisters

house he hadnt known what to do or where to go.Indeed, he didnt know that there was anywhere togo, or anything to do. Hed checked into a small hoteljust off the Falls Road; the male receptionist askedhim for some proof of identity, and Donovan hadshown him his passport.Donovan OCasey, the man said in a thick Pakistaniaccent; this is an American passport.

Yes, replied Donovan.


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But you are not American, the man stated.

Donovan felt like screaming at him, And youre notIrish! but simply shook his head. Why have you gotan American passport if youre not American? theman asked, liked the stereotyped Paki he was.Its a long story; Ill have an Irish passport nextweek, he said, knowing full well he wouldnt.Are you registered with the police as an alien?This was too much, Are you? Donovan threw back

at him.The man grunted, fished under the counter for a setof keys and showed Donovan up to his room withoutanother word. The room was quite pleasant exceptthat it stank of curry. Donovan was surprised that theroom was so habitable; hed had a number ofsurprises since his return, none of them pleasant.If you are staying more than two days I have toinform the police, the man said, it is the law sincewe got independence.We? Donovan asked, reaching for his wallet.From the oppression of Blitish tyranny, the manreplied, missing the point.Oh yes, theyre terrible, arent they, the Blitish,Donovan mimicked.

Bastards! the man said. He spat in disgust.Now, three days later, Donovan sat in the lounge at

the airport, unshaven, unwashed, with a one-wayticket to nowheresville in his hand and a look ofperplexed disbelief on his face. Hed spent the bestpart of a day in the cells before theyd satisfiedthemselves that he was who he said he was. Whentheyd picked him up wandering the street, hed been

so drunk it had taken four of them to load him into


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the van. Hed nearly been charged with assault but

the officer in charge of the station, an old guardProtestant, had accepted his explanation that hehadnt recognised the arresting officers, who hadbeen in plain clothes, and had thought they weregoing to roll him. It had been an understandableerror, after all, two of them were black.We call it mugging over here, he said.Later, when Donovan had been banged up, the

inspector had come into his cell by himself, and,pulling the door closed behind him, said,Youll be on your way in a couple of hours; your IDchecks out.You havent contacted my sister? he askedanxiously.The inspector shook his head, Like you said.Thanks.Your family problems are nothing to do with us; asfar as Im concerned you can carry on killing eachother. He stared at Donovan and his eyes were hard.Donovan had the distinct impression that this wasgoing to turn nasty, but he was in no position and nostate to offer any but a token resistance. The policewere still largely Protestant of course, and they had

suffered more than any other group during thetroubles. They were a tightly knit, almost incestuouscommunity: who knew how many of this mansrelatives had been murdered by the IRA?So youre Donovan OCasey, the DonovanOCasey.Donovan returned the mans stare but said nothing.Theyve written plays about you.

Ive heard.


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Well, now youve got your United Ireland, Mr

OCasey, what do you think of it? Was it worth all theblood you and your friends spilled?It had to be done, Donovan replied.Had to?Ireland had to be free.Oh yes, Ireland had to be free, and now it is free,right.Yes.

The inspector unbuttoned his jacket, pulled out hisservice pistol and jabbed Donovan in the ribs with it.Ill tell you how free it is: its so free that I can shootyou now, file a report that you tried to escape while incustody, and Donovan OCasey or no DonovanOCasey, thatll be the end of it. Therell be ahullabaloo in the press for a week or two, then thefollowing week I can go and shoot another suspect.As long as hes a Catholic or a Protestant and not aPaki. They dont like us shootin Pakis, it upsets theEquality Councils.Its so free that you cant walk anywhere without

being stopped in the street by me or someone likeme and being searched, checked out, possiblydetained for questioning up to five days and being

required to account for your movements over the lastthree months, having your bank account checkedout, your political affiliations and half a dozen otherthings.Its so free that you cant hire anyone you want

unless you fill out an employment certificate and fileit with the Bureau of Fair Employment so that if youtake on too many Catholics or Protestants theyll

send their inspectors round and make you take on


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half a dozen niggers instead. Thats how free it is,

Ireland, this is what you were killing your owncountrymen for.Are you going to kill me? Donovan asked.The man still had the gun pointed towards his rib

cage; he withdrew it, stood up, and walked out of thecell. Slamming the door behind him, he opened thehatch and shouted through it: Welcome to UnitedIreland, Mr OCasey. Welcome to freedom!

That was the last he ever saw of the inspector; acouple of hours later, a half-caste sergeant openedthe cell door and said, Come on Donovan, time foryou to go.He roused himself from his uneasy sleep and stared

up at the man. What time is it? he asked.Time for you to go home.Home?Or wherever you want. Come on, lets collect yourgear.Donovan followed him into the reception area where

his property lay waiting for him. Its all here, if youwanna check it and sign for it.Youve been to the hotel?Of course, we have to check out people like you:

freedom fighters an all that.There were three other officers present, one of themwhite, one black as the ace of spades, and the third aSikh wearing a turban on which was mounted hispolice badge.Donovan may have been a hero at the airport, but he

certainly wasnt here: the police hardly glanced athim and gave him short shrift as soon as hed

collected his gear. This was only to be expected, he


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thought, considering how many of them had been

murdered by the IRA.Except that they hadnt been murdered, Donovantold himself; it had been a war theyd been fighting,and in all wars there are many unfortunate andregrettable deaths.He got up and walked over to the cafeteria where a

young African girl with tribal scars on both cheekstook his order for coffee. She smiled at him, a

genuinely friendly smile as she asked in poorEnglish, Black or white?That was the sixty-four million dollar question, he

thought, and he had to admit that he didnt knowanymore, he was too confused. Milk please, hereplied.The cafeteria was empty except for a middle aged

Indian woman in traditional grab and an Africancouple who were sitting in the far corner arguing insome incomprehensible tongue. Donovan shook hishead in disbelief for the tenth time; where were all thewhite faces? He hadnt seen a colleen since hedarrived here: it was all blacks, Indians and half-chits.Even the RUC seemed to be made up of a mulattomix.

He thought back to the night prior to his arrest. Hedspent hours walking the streets of Belfast, andeverywhere it had been the same.Was this what theyd driven the British out for? Wasthis why theyd spilled the blood of so many of theircountrymen, why so many of Irelands finest hadbeen cut down in their youth or locked up for thebest years of their lives? He wondered, and the more

he wondered, the less he understood.


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The man said, Plenty of time to say your goodbyes,

sir. The planes not ready yet.Donovan looked back at Sandra; he didnt know whatto do. They caught up with him at the desk.Donny, she said, weve been looking all over foryou. We contacted the police and they said youdbeen picked up drunk and held on suspicion of beingan illegal immigrant.There was a bitter-sweet irony there, but he wasnt

in the mood for laughter. He stood silent; Mick spokefirst. Donovan, come home. We know youve beenunder pressure; youve been away so long -everything must seem strange, but youll get used toit.Get used to what, he thought: his kid sister married

to a Sikh; his nephews growing up callingthemselves Irishmen yet brown as rotten apples?Its too late, he said.Whats too late, Donny? asked Sandra.Its too late for Ireland.Dont be silly darling, this is only the beginning: anew beginning.Its too late: its the end.Mick moved in front of Sandra, smiled through his

beard and addressed him man to man, Look,Donovan, I know how you must feel, believe me.When he first came to this country, my father feltexactly the same way. But youve got to understandthat the age of Imperialism has gone. Now that theinfernal British have been driven out weve got tobuild a new Ireland, all of us. Now I know this... hetugged at his beard and indicated his turban in turn

...well, it all seems strange to you, alien,


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disconcerting, but Ive studied psychology, and

believe me, its only a silly prejudice, hostility to anoutgroup. You think Ive invaded your territorialspace so youre hostile, youll get over it. Whatyouve got to understand is were all Irishmen now.He stepped forward and touched Donovan on the

shoulder. Itll take time, thats all.Time? asked Donovan, how much time did it taketo make an Irishman?

Donny, Sandra was speaking now, we want you tocome and live with us; we want us all to be one bighappy family.He shook his head sadly, I have to go, he said, Ill

miss my flight.He turned away. Donny, where are you going?Where will you go?He turned and looked her in the eye, I dont know,

but I cant stay here. Its too late. He signalled to thesecurity officer that he was ready and walkedthrough the gate and out of Ireland for the final time.Donny, please come back, darling. Please, for me.Her voice was pleading, but Mick turned to his wife,

clasped her shoulder and said, Let him go, Sandra;he doesnt belong with us.

Donny, please.Leave him, her husband said, then, looking her inthe eye said, Hes not your brother any more: hes aracist.Donovan didnt know where he would go, but he

couldnt stay here, that was for certain; anothertwenty minutes and hed be out of Ireland for good,or would he? As he boarded the plane, a customs


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officer came running up to him and called, Excuse

me sir, are you Mr OCasey?He turned to the man; he had an Irish accent, but hewas yet another half-chit. Donovan shook his head indisbelief; the officer misread this as the answer to hisquestion.Youre not Mr OCasey?Oh yes, said Donovan. Now what was the matter?Hed already been arrested once; surely they didnt

want to question him again. He wanted just to get outof here, preferably on this flight: ASAP.I thought you were, the officer said, you droppedthis. He handed Donovan his wallet.Stupidly he felt in his inside pocket, then held out hishand forit. Thank you, he said.Any time.Donovan turned back to the aircraft steps, but as hedid so the man spoke again. Excuse me, but arentyou theDonovan Casey ?Yes, Donovan turned back to him.Didnt you fly in the other day?Yes.I heard something about that from a friend of mine

in the RUC.Oh.Yeah, Catholic, he is, they employ Catholics now.They always had, thought Donovan, hed shot oneof them once, but he could hardly tell this fellow that.Yes, I know, he repliedSo where you goin now then?I dont know.

When you comin back?


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I dont know, he lied; he wanted to get aboard the

plane and get out of here.Well, just between the two of us, Mr OCasey, dont.Ive eard all about you; me Mum told me.She did?Yeah, you an all the other IRA godfathers, living it

up in the States and all over the world while thesoldiers on the street did all the dirty work. He wasreferring here to the soldiers of the IRA, not to the

British Army.Your mother told you that? said Donovan, shesIrish?Sheis, but why you should take all the credit for theUnification, you an your kind, I dont know. You thinkyou can just turn up like that after ten or fifteen yearsand hog the limelight. We dont need your sort here,not now.This was the final insult; the guy was a half-caste,

and here he was telling Donovan that he was notwanted, implying that he was a shirker or a fly-by-night. He climbed aboard the plane, dumb-struck,almost in a state of shock.

**********

Donovan sat in the departure lounge at ParisInternational Airport, his head in turmoil. He wastrying to read the newspaper hed bought at theterminal, but he just couldnt concentrate. There wasan article in it about a riot in Limerick. Funny, hethought it had been Derry; no, it was definitely

Limerick. That meant it must be yet another one. The


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Chief Rabbi of Ireland had appealed for calm;

apparently a policeman had been stabbed to deathafter hed called a youth an offensive name: theimplication was that it was nigger. The churcheshad got in on the act too; there was a lot ofunreadable guff about racial tolerance and building anew Ireland, justice and equal opportunity for all.Donovan knew what that meant, he thoughtsarcastically: giving a Sikh the opportunity to marry

your sister. He threw the paper down in disgust.Hed have to make up his mind soon where he was

going. He couldnt stay here; he spoke passableFrench, but hed been advised that if he were tospend any time in France there would be trouble withthe authorities. Since the poison wine scandal of 97,the French had gone out of their way to appease theBritish, and one thing London had made abundantlyclear to President Jarre was that they didnt wantanyone with IRA connections putting down roots inFrench soil.Donovan looked across at the man in the grey

trench coat; he was obviously a French secretservice agent, they stuck out a mile. The man turnedaway trying desperately not to give him the

impression that he was watching his every move.Then two British soldiers appeared out of nowhereand sat down next to Donovan. He took one glance attheir uniforms and his heart leapt into his throat.Thrusting his hand into his pocket he realised toolate that he wasnt armed: how could he be? This wasstupid. He looked across at the secret service man,but the man turned away, got up and walked over to

the kiosk, ostensibly to buy a newspaper.


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The two soldiers were far from spring chickens: one

was a major, the other a sergeant, and although theywere in full uniform they had a relaxed air aboutthem. Donovan shook his head, of course it wasnt aset up, not even the British were that stupid. Helooked at his watch, eleven fifty-eight; he still had thebest part of an hour in which to make up his mind.The two soldiers were talking, and out of idlecuriosity rather than anything else, Donovan strained

his ears to listen to what they were saying.How long were you in the Falklands, sir? asked thesergeant of the major.Right from the start of the conflict, before that I wasin Germany, then I did three tours in NorthernIreland.Three? said the subaltern in awe.Yes, not to be recommended, but I didnt have a lotof choice. You were never there, I gather?Fortunately no.The major shook his head, They were bastards

them micks; kill, kill, kill, thats all they everunderstood, there was no reasoning with them, justkill, kill, kill.I suppose it was inevitable that the government

would sell out eventually, sir?Whitehall? Yes. Totally spineless of course; it was

when they bombed the Underground that time, thatwas what made them cave in. Didnt care a toss howmany of us were done in, but as soon as the IRAstarted killing bureaucrats they had second thoughts.Its the bureaucrats who really run the country, see,the civil servants, not the politicians, theyre just

sheep, they only do what theyre told.


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Do you think we could have won if theyd given us

carte blanche?The major pursed his lips and thought deeply,Well, I certainly think we could have wiped thebastards out, but whether wed have won in anymeaningful sense of the word...I doubt it. Wed haveto have killed ever able-bodied Irish Catholic, manand woman in the entire Province, and in theRepublic as well before wed have beaten the IRA.

Yes, I think we could have wiped them out, but theprice would have been too high.Anyway, its a fait accompli now; theres no usebrooding about what we could have done. Theresonly one thing really bothers me about them crazymicks.Whats that, sir?The major lowered his voice to an almost

conspiratorial tone and said, God, with all thatmisplaced idealism, just think where wed be now,Britain, if theyd been on our side.Sir? The sergeant was visibly confused.Ah, you dont remember what Blighty used to be

like before the wog invasion, do you? Neither do Iproperly, I mean, for as long as I can remember, the

inner cities have been a dirty shade of brown, but itwasnt always like that; my father told me, God resthim, that back in the fifties, just after the war and thelike, you couldnt see a black face most anywhere.Not even in the cities.You couldnt, sir?I can remember when all the villages were white: thevillages, the market towns, everywhere away from

London, Liverpool and the conurbations.


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You can, sir?

Yes, it wasnt that long ago. Now you cant walkdown any street anywhere without seeing shoals ofNegroids, Pakis, and, worst of all, everywhere youlook you see these... the major spat in disgust, yousee these white whores pushing their picaninnies inpushchairs, always with stupid grins on their faces.Another generation and there wont be any whites leftat all.

Donovan sat listening to this, transfixed; hewondered what the major had meant by his referenceto the IRA. So did the sergeant, But what has all thisgot to do with the IRA, sir?God man! the major snapped, do you think

theyd have stood for all that? Theyve been killingthe British since the last century, the 19th Century, Imean, and were, well, were their brothers, andtheyve been killing us just because we wouldnt letthem run the show. What do you think theyd havedone if theyd been invaded by fifteen or twentymillion nig-nogs? Theyd have driven them out,picked up their Armalites and... he pointed a fingerin the shape of a gun, bang, bang, bang...goodbyeLeroy, goodbye Patel. And the politicians too; they

wouldnt have stood for any of that one worldnonsense, all that brotherhood of man shit.I see sir. said the sergeant, then, It isnt that badBritain, is it sir?What! You havent been back there for how long isit?Fifteen years sir, nearly.The major shook his head sadly, You wont

recognise it; youve only got to walk down the street,


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I mean any street and you see lovely British girls, or

what were once lovely British girls pushing half-chitsabout in pushchairs and sucking up to niggers likethey were Gods gift to women. Dont get me wrongmind, Ive worked with Negroes, especially that timein Ghana in 93 when we went in to help Rawlings putdown the Sons of Nkruma when they had that biginsurgency, and some of them...splendid fellowssome of them, but, well, its not right is it, all this

inter-racial screwing.Most definitely not, sir.Itll soon be compulsory from what I hear. Anyway,Ive got nothing aginst Nigras, but like I said, Britainis meant to be Britain, not darkest Africa, but it soonwill be the rate theyre going.You were saying sir?Yes, well, theyd never have got away with that in

Ireland. Oh, they had a few there when I was there,Chinese, few Pakis too, but the Chinese keptthemselves to themselves, and the Asians, well, theyran a few corner shops and restaurants and the likeand minded their own business, but if theyd tried toswamp the place with them, the IRA would neverhave stood for it. Theyd have risen up and popped

them all off, and they wouldnt have given two fucksabout all this abolish racism bullshit were foreverhearing from the British government, theyd havecarried on taking them out until there wasnt a blackface left in Ireland, crooked politicians, churchmenand all. They dont give a stuff. My God! If only thatcrazy bunch of micks had been on our side.


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Donovan stood up and walked past the two men

slowly; there was admiration, almost awe in themajors voice.Why they ever hated us so much Ill never know,after all, were the same as them.Dont suppose they like the wogs anymore than us,

sir? The sergeant forced himself to laugh but it wasobvious to Donovan that he wasnt really enjoyingthis rather strange conversation.

They wouldnt stand for it, mark my word, no red-blooded Irishman would ever allow his country to beinvaded by the flotsam and jetsam of Africa and Asia,much less stand by and watch his womenfolkinterbreed with them.Donovan made for the bar: he was confused,

disturbed. Less than a week ago hed been thehappiest man in the world: he was returning home intriumph, returning to a home hed thought he wouldnever see again, the war had been won, and theenemy driven out. Now here he was, an exile from hishomeland once more, but this time he knew he couldnever go back, and he had just been listening to hisavowed enemy speaking about the Movement inhushed whispers, with awe and admiration in his

voice, and, for the first time in his life, DonovanOCasey asked himself the question he had onceasked his father when he had been barely six yearsold. Why do we hate the British?When hed asked Duane OCasey that question, his

father had sat him on his knee and related to him thehistory of the Emerald Isle, the potato famine, theBlack and Tans, the oppression of the Catholics, the

discrimination, the British Army terrorism. He had


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told Donovan heroic tales about the hunger strikers

who had starved themselves to death, the heroeswho had died on active service. Duane OCasey hadgone on and on about what monsters the Britishwere and how they had to be driven out, even if theend result was that they had to kill every livingbreathing Englishman, even if they themselves diedin the attempt.Donovan had listened enraptured to all this as a

boy, and had accepted all of his fathers hate andvituperation without question. Now, thirty years laterhe was asking himself the same question, and all theanswers his father had given him were revealed forwhat they were: the mindless, blind hatred of thereligious\political fanatic. Truly that was what hisfather had been: an evil, bigoted, hateful man. Andthat was what he had been; here were twoEnglishmen, two fellow whites sitting talking abouthim as though he were their brother, and all he hadever done to them was hate them and kill them, andfor what? To give his sister the right to marry aPakistani, Indian, Sikh, or whatever Mick was. Yes,Mick, he was actually called Mick!Donovan sat at the bar, a half empty glass of

Cognac in his right hand, his left hand tinkering idlywith the peanut tray. The barmaid smiled at him, agenuinely friendly smile; he stood up, said to her influent French, Ill have to go; Ill miss my flight,smiled as convincingly as he could, then walked outof the bar.As he made his way towards the terminal he knew

what he had to do; he should have realised the truth

before, ten years ago at the very least, but now it was


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too late, there was no salvation, only, perhaps,

redemption. He cast his mind back to the wildernessof Southern Africa and an incident that had happenedwhen hed been serving under Manfred Kroll, the MadKraut as he was known.Hed spent six months under Kroll, whod been

hired by a multi-national corporation to overthrowTinga Tshombe, the latest in a seemingly endless lineof dictators to seize power in black Africa. This time

it was liberated Zimbabwe. Apparently a massivedeposit of vanadium had been discovered, andTshombe, who had been installed by InternationalFinance in the first place, had got delusions ofgrandeur. He didnt understand that he was just acaretaker, and that he had to bow to the real rulers ofhis country, in Wall Street.Tshombe, who had succeeded the previous dictator

and murderer, Mugabe, had been the darling of theWestern media for about eighteen months. The factthat he had butchered at least 30,000 of his ownpeople didnt stop him being hailed as a greatliberator and democrat by the controlled press.However, when he decided to double the price of theore concessions and confiscate US interests, their

attitude towards him changed over-night, and it wasdecided that he would have to go. Kroll, who hadbeen around since the late sixties, was given the taskof deposing him.Manfred Kroll was an oddball, even for a mercenary.

He was rumoured to be a member of a highlyconspiratorial neo-Nazi secret society: the BlackEagles, a rumour that was partially substantiated by


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a distinctive tattoo of a black eagle and swastika on

his right shoulder.Like many Germans, Kroll spoke fluent English, buthis usage of the language, peppered liberally as itwas with Anglo-Saxon, and a Scouse-like accent,gave a curious effect. Donovan was a powerful man,but no matter how big you are, there is alwayssomeone bigger, and under Kroll, there served a sixfoot three inch Irishman, a Protestant who was using

the name of Ivan Robertson. Like most of the whitemercs, this was undoubtedly a nom de guerre.Robertson, it was rumoured, was on the run from theRUC and was thought to have been involved with aProtestant terror gang. When they met in an obscureborder town in southern Kenya, he had immediatelyidentified Donovan as a Northern Ireland Catholic,though hed had no idea who he really was, owing tohis thick beard. He took an instant dislike toDonovan. Religion doesnt play a large role in the lifeof the average mercenary, but Kroll was known to bea German Protestant and to have had connections inthe past with Loyalist gangs in the Province.Robertson began sniping at Donovan almost from

the very first moment they met, making sly digs at

Catholics and ridiculing the IRA. The dislike wasmutual, and under other circumstances, Donovanwould have had little compunction about killingRobertson on the spot; the Protestant bigot trulydidnt appreciate how lucky he was. At the start ofthe second week, after they had had their finalbriefing before leading a raid on one of Tshombesborder post armouries, violence erupted.


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The mercenaries had been drinking, something

which Donovan rarely did, and which Kroll did hisbest to discourage, but of the thirty men under hiscommand, all but six were black, and the nativemercs, lacking the iron discipline of theprofessionally trained whites, needed some way tounwind and let off steam. Inevitably, the whitesjoined in with the drinking session, and, as heconsumed more and more alcohol, Robertson began

to direct more and more openly abusive remarks athis countrymen. Sensing what was about to happen,Kroll warned him to cool it.Easy Fang, he said, using the Loyalists curious

nickname, We have to fight the enemy the day aftertomorrow; best not fight each other today.The mercs were garrisoned in a large wooden hut,

and although they were not segregated, the whiteshad drifted naturally into a little clique in the farcorner. Robertson stood up and walked over toDonovans bunk where he was lying, doing his bestto ignore the provocative bigot by pretending to reada pulp fiction paperback.We dont fight each other, do we, Castle?Castle was the pseudonym Donovan had been fixed

up with by Noraid. As he spoke, he kicked Donovansbunk. Eh, yer fuckin Fenian?Steady Fang, warned Kroll, a shade more firmlythis time. Donovan held his tongue.The IRA dont fight, Robertson continued, not

men anyway, only schoolkids. This was a referenceto an incident which had taken place only a fewweeks earlier when, probably by accident, an active

service unit had blown up a school bus in


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Birmingham, only yards from the Rotunda public

house where in 1974 twenty-one people had beenslain in the notorious Birmingham Six case. SixIrishmen resident in Britain had been wrongfullyconvicted of the bombing and had spent sixteenyears in jail before being freed by the Court ofAppeal.This latest IRA outrage, which had killed nine

children and maimed thirty more, had been on the

front pages of the British tabloids more or lesscontinuously for the past three weeks and had beenwidely reported throughout the whole of the English-speaking world.Donovan ignored the remark and tried to continue

reading his book, but Robertson was intent onstarting something. Raising his hand, he snatchedaway the book and hurled it to the other side of thehut.Eh, Im talking to you.Donovan looked up slowly, but his body was alreadytense, anticipating an attack. Fang! shouted Kroll.Yer fuckin! As he spoke, he bent over Donovanand grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt, tearing it.Donovan thrust himself to his feet and grabbed

Robertson round the wrists, but it was alreadyapparent that even in his drunken state, theProtestant was more than a match for him. He was abig, gorilla of a man.Fortunately, Kroll was a giant too, and as Donovan

struggled with his enemy, the veteran of countlessguerrilla campaigns sprang across the hut, seizedRobertson from behind in a headlock, and tried to

haul him off. Amazingly, not a punch was thrown, but


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by this time, Robertson was all but foaming at the

mouth.Let go, said Kroll, let go off him.Robertson snarled.Let go off him, Fang, or I break your fuckink neck.The black mercs sat watching the incident, some

with grins of amusement on their faces, otherswithout comprehension, being already smashed outof their skulls.

Hes a fuckin Fenian, screamed Robertson, hesa...Kroll chopped him savagely in the liver and theProtestant sagged to the floor. I said desist!shouted Kroll, then, Castle, give me a hand.Between them, they pulled Robertson to his feet and

began dragging him outside; Donovan wasnt quitesure what was going to happen next; he had seenKroll discipline blacks when they got out of control,but he would hardly do the same to Robertson.When they got outside, Kroll pinned Robertson up

against the hut wall and held his head back like anangry mother disciplining a child.Now listen to me, both of you, I dont want anymoreof this Sectarian garbage. You understand?

Hes a fuckin Fenian! repeated Robertson.Not out here, Fang.Hes a fuckin IRA murderer. A Fenian!Fang! Listen to me, Fang, out here there are no

Fenians and there are no Loyalists. You see that?He held up his arm and displayed the swastika tattoo.This is all there are out here, Fang: White Men.Hes a...


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Listen Fang, in there is a pack of nigger savages;

they hate the White Man, they like to think they are asclever as the White Man even though they never gotround to inventing the wheel. They think they cancontrol their destiny, but they are like children; allacross Africa it is the same. Wherever they takecontrol there is chaos, that is why we are here, not tofight for uhuruor some shit, but to restore order, theWhite Mans order. While we fight each other, chaos

reigns, but if we stand together, we are strong. Athome you can hate each other, you can kill eachother for all I care, but out here there are no Fenians,there are no Loyalists, there are no Germans: thereare only White Men. You understand that, Fang? It isus and them; while we stand together, we are incontrol, but as soon as we fight each other, thesavages take over.Donovan shook his head and ordered another drink;

he wondered what had happened to Kroll. He knewwhat had happened to Robertson; after the overthrowof Tshombe hed returned to the Province and, twoyears later, hed been shot dead, not by the Provos,but, ironically, by one of his own kind. At the time,that was what Donovan had thought, his own kind,

but he realised now that, used in that context, theterm was grossly misleading. He was Robertsonsown kind, they were not just fellow Irishmen, butfellow whites. But all they had ever done, Catholicand Protestant, was hate each other, and kill eachother while Erin and the entire white world, grewsteadily darker.He thought again about Kroll; everything the

German had said, made sense, but his analysis of the


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terms with the fact that all his life he had been

fighting, not just for a lost cause, but for the wrongcause. The IRA had not taken power in Ireland, andthe chances are that there would never be a directlyelected IRA government; although support for theUnification had been practically unanimous, therewere still too many people opposed to the means ifnot the ends of the Provos. But even if an IRAgovernment were to be elected tomorrow, it would

make no difference.Before hed left his homeland for the final time,

Donovan had read carefully through their DeclarationErin and had learned all about their commitment tocreating not just a socialist Ireland, but a just,egalitarian society; the number two plank of theirmanifesto was to totally oppose and eliminate racismin whatever form it manifested, and by whatevermeans necessary. But this was not idle talk, Donovanhad already seen the fruits of the new Republic. Hehad seen Irish women taking up with Negroes, half-chits and Asians. God! His own sister...! And wherewas the IRA? It was standing right behind them, notwith an Armalite, ready to cut down the white traitorsand the coloured invaders, but with a manifesto

pledging to sanction this...genocide!That was the only word, the Irish race was being

phased out. He thought initially that it had been somesort of British conspiracy; there had been no waythey could ever have beaten the IRA by force of arms,so perhaps they had resorted to subterfuge. But hedismissed the thought; it was appealing, the sameway it was appealing to the far right to interpret all

such perversion as the machinations of an


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international Jewish conspiracy. By choosing ones

facts selectively, one could prove whatever onewanted. And however much he hated the British, herealised the fact that, although they had endorsed,promoted, even enforced this madness, they weremerely a symptom, not the disease itself.Hed seen the same thing in America, it was

fashionable there to blame the Jews for it because ofthe high concentrations of Jews in both the media

and the race-mixing industry. However, it was alsohappening in Israel or New Palestine as it was nowknown; a while ago hed read about a riot betweenOrthodox Jews and, not Palestinians but, incredibly,Nigerians. Apparently there were now nearly as manyNigerians in Jerusalem as there were Jews. Thewhole world over, it was the same: the white race,indeed, all the higher races were being consciouslyand deliberately phased out, even China and Japannow had large, unwanted, dark-skinned minorities.Donovan had thought Ireland would be different; the

IRA were like no other liberation movement on Earth.They were predominantly working class for onething. But now, after decades of bloody struggle,they had turned the Unification on its head. The

liberation of Ireland from the yoke of BritishImperialism had turned out to be, not just adisaster, but a phoney struggle from the very start.He

pyrrhic victory

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